Up All Night
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: Bucky and Steve are having nightmares and look to each other for comfort. Bucky being Bucky, he can't help but crack jokes and the next thing you know, pillows are flying. (Includes a bit of Sam Wilson, though for some reason I can't add him as a character :/) Non-slash (unless you're really determined).
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: I may be a terrible person, doing this to poor Bucky. But I'm gonna do it anyway. I'll make it up to him later on. Promise.**_

* * *

Bucky stares down at his metal fist, still clamped crushingly tight around the man's throat. He can see angry red welts melting into thick black-purple bruises, where his fingers are nearly breaking the skin. The blonde head lolls brokenly as he jerks his hand away. As the corpse flops limply to the ground, he realizes with mounting horror that a steadily growing crimson stain is pooling beneath it. A still-cooling pistol is curled tightly in his right hand. He drops it numbly, backing away.

_Steve._

He stares at his own handiwork in disbelief. He had thought it was safe now. That he wasn't a weapon anymore... He doesn't even remember doing it - doesn't remember anything but the fragile flesh, crushed in his hand.

He stumbles, tripping over some unseen obstacle and falls back, hard. Something warm and wet meets his hand as he braces himself to stand. He brings shaking fingers up, finding them slick with blood.

_No…. No..._

He forces himself to look, then has to look away, stomach turning.

_Sam too._

Sam who has been so patient with him. Has helped him calm the rage. Sam who has gently talked him through the horrors he still carries with him, and never loses sight of the wounded soldier inside the hulking, metal-armed man. Sam who went so far as to move into their spare room, just so he could be there whenever Bucky suffers an episode. Sam who knows how to get through to a frightened soldier, when even Steve cannot find the words. _And how has he repaid him?_

"_**Your work has been a gift to mankind**_." The voice echoes all around him.

_No… This isn't possible. There is no more Winter Soldier..._

He reels, hands to his head, trying to shut it out. He hears Natasha screaming; turns to see her staring up at him in desperate, terrified horror. She is clutching a wounded side and he knows at a glance that she will die. He tries to go to her, but she only drags herself away, sobbing in a way that he can't bear.

"Why would you do this?" She asks him, large eyes fixed on him, pleading and in pain. "We trusted you…"

* * *

Bucky shot up in bed, heart hammering in his chest. His eyes skittered nervously across the room as he worked to get his breathing under control; taking in the still, quiet darkness. He needed to see Steve's face, whole and unbroken. Though his head knew it wasn't real, his heart needed proof.

His eyes finally picked out Steve's bed, a plain military-style bunk, pushed up against the other wall. He was unsurprised to see light blue eyes locked on him through the darkness, regarding him with unmasked worry. Steve had never been a particularly heavy sleeper, and he seemed acutely tuned to the sound of Bucky in the throes of a nightmare.

Without a word, Bucky flicked aside the covers of his bed and padded across the room.

_Screw this. Screw sleeping. And most of all: screw sleeping __**alone**__._


	2. Chapter 2

They'd both squeezed into Bucky's tiny, narrow bed - forever and another lifetime ago in Brooklyn - when Steve's asthma had plagued him during a long, nasty winter. Poor sickly Steve had been wheezing and gasping for air, huddled on a folded quilt laid out on the floor, when Bucky had all but dragged his friend up beside him. He'd forced Steve to take all of the blankets available in the small, sparse room and bundled his friend until he looked a little like a corn-dog, his little stick neck poking out of a thick roll of blankets. They'd laid back-to-front, Bucky sharing whatever body-heat he could, until Steve's breathing calmed down and the sun slowly began to rise in the sky.

* * *

When he was 13, he'd anchored his friend through a torrent of silent grief, curled together on old, dirty sofa cushions laid out on a hardwood floor. It had been the night after Steve's dad's funeral, and his mother was too broken to comfort her son, so Bucky had taken it upon himself to do it instead. He had long-ago appointed himself Steve Rogers' unofficial guardian.

* * *

It had been two years later, when Bucky's parents had gotten the consolation letter for his older brother, that it was Steve's turn to do the comforting; letting Bucky sob like the broken kid he was into his friend's skinny, insubstantial shoulder. It had been nice, just for once, not to have to be the strong one. Steve had just taken it all in. All the tears, the swear-words that neither of them were supposed to know yet, the grief. He'd just absorbed it in that strange, unyielding way he had and given unwavering support back. Neither had really thought anything of it then, and he dared anyone to give him shit about it tonight.

* * *

Steve moved over and made room for him automatically. Bucky accepted it in silence and settled into his friend's warmth, leaning into the solid, reassuring wall that Steve Rogers had become. There had been a time when he'd have knocked poor puny Steve right over if he'd put his full weight into him, but now they simply balanced out. He wasn't sure if that made this more reassuring, or less…

Steve draped his scratchy wool blanket over Bucky and they sat, shoulder to shoulder for a while, sharing the silence.

"Thanks." Bucky volunteered after a few minutes, drawing the blanket closer around himself. "Just..." He let out a long, slow breath. "Thanks."

"Anytime."


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky wasn't sure when he'd nodded off. He came around, just a bit groggy, head lolled awkward and stiff against his right shoulder. For once, he hadn't dreamed, and it had been a welcome relief.

Something caught his attention, and he noticed the sound of mumbling to his left. Steve had apparently dozed off as well, though he didn't seem to be quite so lucky.

Steve shifted restlessly against the cold metal of his friend's arm, eyelids twitching uneasily. His chest rose and fell just a bit too quickly and he mumbled something inaudible every so often.

Bucky was just considering trying to wake him and return one of the thousands of unpaid favors he owed, when Steve's arm shot up, nearly catching him in the face. He reared back in time to avoid being caught under the chin, but barely.

"Grab my hand!" Steve shouted abruptly.

Bucky did as he was told without thinking, clamping onto Steve's outstretched fingers with his human hand. Following orders was still a bit of an ingrained habit.

Steve jolted, and lurched upright as his eyes snapped open, clearly confused. He blinked as if trying to remember where he was, then stared down at the hand solidly grasping his own.

"Train mission again?" Bucky offered, a little awkwardly.

He still wasn't sure how to face the fact that both of them could be turned back into scared little boys by the battle scars in their heads.

"... Yeah. I-... Sorry." Steve looked thoroughly embarrassed. They'd gone over and over the fact that there had been nothing he could've done, but that didn't ease the guilt he still felt over it.

Bucky glanced down at their joined hands.

"Good catch."

Steve surprised himself by laughing. His head dropped back into the thin pillow that was still propped up against the rigid wood of the bed-frame.

"You're a creep."

"What? I'm just saying. You should take it as a compliment, _Stevie_."

"Oh, you did _not_ just call me 'Stevie'!" Steve propped himself up indignantly on his elbows, but he couldn't quite keep himself from smiling.

"Oh yes I _did._ What are you gonna do about it, Stars-and-Stripes?" Bucky grinned, eyes glinting with familiar mischief, as he roughly scruffed Steve's hair.

"Oo_oooh_, it is _on_ now!" Steve reached back and snatched up his pillow, walloping his friend with it until Bucky tumbled, laughing too hard to stand up, onto the floor.

"Why you cheating little-"


	4. Chapter 4

Sam Wilson threw open the door, expecting to have to intervene in some sort of battle royale going on inside Rogers' and Barnes' shared room, only to find the two muscle-bound idiots smacking each-other senseless with pillows and giggling like teenage girls. They froze self-consciously when they noticed him standing in the door, staring open mouthed.

"Uh… hi, Sam." Steve waved at him from where he lay, half on the floor; his feet still dangling haphazardly off of the mattress, a pillow paused halfway to Bucky's face. Bucky crouched on his knees, the pillow from his own bed raised over his head, prepared to clobber Steve right back.

"Remind me why I moved in here again?"

"Anger issues, trust issues, PTSD-" Bucky started ticking off the list on his fingers, letting the pillow droop limply across his back.

Sam sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose tiredly. He was glad to see Bucky at ease and relaxed, especially after all the shit he'd helped him work through, but one thing he _wasn't_ glad about was being woken up at 2 in the morning by what had sounded like two super-soldiers trying to murder each other.

"Could you girls at least keep your slumber-party quiet? I know you have to paint each other's nails and all, but some of us do actually want to sleep-"

A pillow smacked into his face with a soft _whump,_ and Steve giggled - honestly giggled - from his spot on the floor. Bucky grinned, now unarmed.

"Oh that does it, Falcon is GO, boys!" Sam charged in, swinging his newly acquired pillow.

_Ah what the hell. If it helps, run with it._ He reasoned. _Besides, if you can't beat 'em… join em._

* * *

An hour later, three former soldiers were sprawled across the floor, laughing too hard to bother trying to hit each other anymore. They'd more or less given up on the pillow-fight when one of the pillows had exploded into a cloud of feathers, which had gone absolutely everywhere, after Bucky had defended a surprise attack from Steve just a little too enthusiastically.

"You know what we need to make this a true inner-five-year-old kinda night?" Sam sat up- then immediately ducked the surviving pillow that Steve tossed halfheartedly at his head. It slid anti-climactically to a halt against the far wall. Sam gave him a mock-indignant scowl and paused to pick a few stray feathers off of his shirt. It was going on 4:30 in the morning and he'd long since given up on going back to bed.

"If you suggest nail polish, I'm gonna punch you. Just fair warning." Bucky piped up, still laying flat on his back.

"I was _actually_ gonna suggest bad movies and popcorn. … But hey, if you wanna feel pretty, I'm not judging."

"You are so lucky I'm out of pillows." Bucky raised an arm to point at him, but he felt much too lazy at the moment to bother sitting up just yet.

"If you hadn't cut your hair, we could always braid it and talk about boys." Steve joined in, slowly righting himself and getting to his feet.

Bucky rolled his eyes and stretched back against the floor.

"This from the guy who started his career in tights." He muttered.

Steve shoved him gently with his foot, heading for the kitchen to get the suggested popcorn underway.

"Hey, at least I didn't wear battle mascara, Buck." He called over shoulder, cupboard doors thunking as he rummaged for a mixing bowl.

"That was war-paint, you little shit. And it's not like I picked it out."

"Like I said, I'm not judging." Sam said solemnly.

Steve could be heard laughing over the sound of the popcorn maker firing up. Sam had tried to sell him on the microwaved stuff a year or so ago, but it just wasn't the same and he'd insisted on buying an air-popper instead.

Bucky sighed melodramatically, making a show of hurt feelings as he got picked himself up, brushing off mounds of tiny white feathers in the process. He looked ridiculous and he knew it.

"If you guys are going to be jerks, I get to pick the movie."

Sam made a show of gesturing him towards the living room, where the TV awaited.

"By all means, sir, by all means."

"Steve…?"

"Sure, pick whatever you want." Steve was busy, dousing the popcorn in half a stick of melted butter and a generous sprinkling of salt. He never went half-way on junk food.

"Hey, Steve... You remember those Captain America flicks you made before you went overseas?"

"Ooooh no." Steve's head poked around the corner. "No. No way. We are not-"

"Oh, I think we are."

* * *

"Man... and I thought you were kidding about the tights…" Sam helped himself to a handful of popcorn as the black-and-white footage streamed over the TV screen. The Captain America on the screen was currently leading a battalion of over-the-top actors into battle against men with terrible fake German accents.

They all groaned a little at the awfully scripted fight sequences.

Steve grumbled, but he passed the popcorn bowl and dumped his feet into Bucky's lap anyway. Sam did the same from the opposite arm of the couch, leaving Bucky stuck in the middle with two sets of feet and a bowl of popcorn in his lap. He pulled a face, but it was clear he didn't really mind.

"Damned punk kids…" He muttered, tossing a popcorn kernel at Steve's head before turning his attention back to the movie. Steve just ducked and grinned.

It was nice to feel normal once in a while, even if only for one night.


End file.
